Friday, 26 February 2021

Free Form No.8

 
The loaded words
Serving solely to misguide,
A fantastic journey
Into dream and delusion—
 
The adventurous ride
Into painted meadows
And high-tech cities,
We fly like Scrooge—
 
So lucid, so bright,
The words do hint
At facts so rooted
In common ground—
 
But alas, behold,
The lurking daemon
Behind the garb
Of loosely fitting
Robes and lavish
Yet cheap polyester—
 
The elusive form
Speaking only in riddles
And haunting tales
Calling forth fancy views
Of transient charm—

The expanding girth
Of one so smart,
The rarefied potency
Incessantly infusing
Its molecular odour
Indiscriminately through—
 
What a terrible trick!
Yet who's to blame?
For afflicted is all
By this evasive cause—

Hands thrown up!
Sigh light in knowing
Ills perceived
Are just illusion—
 
For here we sit
In silent being,
Ravished not
By dismal scenes
Of fading fights
And startling news—
 
The parasitic leech
Is shaken off,
Falling hard
Does wriggle
In drying death
And dusty dissolution—
 
Until emerging from
The desert ground
One violet pulse
Of pulpy growth—
 
With this timeless act
Of effortless strength,
The greater field,
The unwavering friend,
Shows its face
In ceaseless presence—
 
The very bed
Of all delusion.
 
MS21
 






 
 

 
 

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